


Drawn By You

by LennieAndTheJets



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Band, Gay, Highschool AU, Instagram, M/M, McLennon, Modern Era, Social Media, The Beatles - Freeform, teenage stuff y’know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennieAndTheJets/pseuds/LennieAndTheJets
Summary: @strxwberry_fields, or "Winnie", is Paul's favorite art account on Instagram. From their intricate detailing in the way they draw eyes, capturing so much life and at times total lack of it, to the poses they paint with a photographic realism yet a graceful touch of abstraction, and even to their daily doodles that include endearing scribbles and crossings out- Winnie's art downright entranced the eldest McCartney Kid into following them.But when Paul moves to a new town and, consequently, a new Highschool, Winnie's art takes an unexpected turn which Paul might have unintentionally influenced.Too bad the schools “Bad Boy” Can't appreciate him as much as Winnies art.————[this fic is also on my Wattpad]
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	Drawn By You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s moving day for Paul and Winnie posted again

Waking up in the morning usually came easy to Paul McCartney. The 16 year old had a 06:30 alarm set for every morning, so that he could get up and get ready for school as soon as he heard ducks quacking- it was the most obnoxious noise he could think of that could wake him up. And when it wasn't a school night, he'd turn it off and wake up naturally. But when his alarm quacked on this Sunday morning, he wanted to throw his phone out of a bloody window. He was far from impressed by the way the lights that poured from the gaps in the blinds and attacked his closed eyelids and how every pillow on his bed couldn't block it out enough. Another thing that his pillows couldn't block out, as hard as he tried, was the banging at his plain white door, creating the most annoying beat that even the worst drummer could never achieve, coupled with the whiny voice of his younger brother, Mike.

"Paul! Paaaaaul! Paulie-Paul! 'Dick-straighter-than-a-pole'-Paul! James! Jimmy-James! Big boy Jim-Jam! Awaken from your slumber, you pretty fucking princess- it's moving day!" Paul has had more than enough at this point and fell out of bed as he groaned loudly, hoping that Mike would hear him. Not bothering with putting on his slippers, like his father would always tell him to, he slumped over to open his bedroom door, sharply pulling it open. The younger McCartney teen looked up at his glaring, disgruntled older brother and smirked cheekily.

"oh hello there, my dearest bromie, didn't know you'd be awake durning these early morning hours. May I ask, what woke you up?" Mike crossed his arms and batted his eyelashes before Paul smacked him half-jokingly across the head.  
"You, you cheeky shit," Paul answered. He rubbed his hazel eyes with his other hand and yawned.  
"Paul! Don't swear at your brother and set a good example!" His dad, Jim, yelled from the kitchen where he made his children breakfast.  
"But Mike swore at me first! How's that fair?" Paul complained in his usual over-dramatic fashion to his aging father, fully aware he would receive no reply but wanted to whine anyway.  
"Big Dick Privilage," Mike simply said, before he punched his brother in the gut affectionately. "Nonce." He quipped once more until he scurried back to his own bedroom, just in time so that Paul couldn't do anything back to him as he laughed like a mad man.

Paul could only sigh before he walked back into his bare, stripped down room. Where used to hang posters of his favorite musicians, bands and shows now where only impersonal, white walls. There were no longer bookshelves, desks nor chairs and the only thing there besides stacks of generically labeled moving boxes was his twin-sized bed in the farthest corner of the room. He looked around the space that saw his whole life unfold and shaped to suit his existence in it, all the way from his infancy to his teenage years. This room observed his happiest days where he laughed at stupid jokes while calling friends or at memes, and even days where he hit sadnesses rock bottom, especially the day when he found out his mother passed away. If Paul were to be completely honest, he wasn't ready to leave this room, because to him it was so much more than just 4 walls and a window- it was who he was. And even now, when the room looked like a plain canvas that was ready to get painted on, he felt the most nostalgic.

He pulled down his creased sleep shirt and readjusted his stained sweatpants and plopped down on his messy bed, the only thing that was going to get left behind when they moved. He reached down to the floor to pick up his IPhone 7, which he's had for about 3 years now and had a large slash across the screen. He wanted to get a new one but Jim wouldn't budge 'as long as it worked', and the newest ones were getting quite expensive. He unlocked it and he automatically pressed on the purple and yellow Instagram icon, waiting for it to load. As soon as it opened to his home page, he scrolled. And he scrolled. And scrolled some more, liking anything that caught his eye, whether it was a selfie from one of his friends, a meme or a funny picture of a cute pet. His scrolling came to a stop when he saw the 'New Posts ^' pop-up appear on the bottom of the page. He pressed it, having nothing better to do, and it took him back immediately to the top, where a couple of fresh posts appeared: the first was a year 6 picture of his old class where he was circled in red that he was tagged in, followed by a few of his recent unflattering photos, captioned "We'll miss ya, @ paulie_pocket. Don't get in a car crash on the way lmao 🤠"; in the next post, there were pictures and clips of some of his mates messing around from the night before, getting drunk at one of their houses, all of them absolutely red faced and wasted; the last new post stood out the most. It was a fully black and white drawing of a boy with fluffy hair and freckles but no eyes, those being replaced with the words 'nothing is real' across them. It was insanely detailed despite the harsh and scribbled lines, the art style capturing an emotion that Paul couldn't even think of placing. The caption was blunt and uninterested, but if you saw the art piece, you'd know that it came from a place where the artist really couldn't care about these sorts of abstract-y concepts and expressed acceptance towards them, stating in the caption 'nothing to get hung about' with some added hashtags as well. Paul knew who this artist was and always made sure to look through their account several times a day. 

The account was @ strxwberry_fields, but in their bio, they described that they wanted to be referred to as simply 'Winnie', not even stating their gender. They were not the biggest art account by any means, but their profile was gaining plenty of new followers and earning thousands of likes with each day. Their art style was largely experimental and rarely committed to a single format. Each new face they drew had an ever so slightly different emotion and twinkle in the eye, and every head of hair was shaded and highlighted a little diffidently from the last. The drawings, paintings and sketches never had the same theme somehow, and each post was unique, and rich with human expression. Paul had found Winnie one day while scrolling through some bands fanart, and he couldn't tear his gaze from a soft watercolor of a flame-headed lady with seashell eyes standing, knees deep in the sea but not soaking her pale-teal, floral dress. The drawing had nothing to do with the band in any way, but he couldn't care less. So he followed the artist.

Winnie's art always made Paul's day ever so slightly brighter, and if he had already been having a good day, seeing the art pieces (and even the captions) made it better. Winnie had a joking, sassy and sarcastic personality with a sprinkle of childlike wonder, but sometimes with patches of deeper problems that were expressed in the art. Paul noticed that they had a sort of schedule on what they'd post on what days: on Mondays it would be often a work in progress sketch or a finished piece, on Tuesadays it would be their random class doodles (or 'Scribs' as they called them), Wednesday's were either a rest day if they had finished Monday's sketch or the finished piece from the WIP, Friday's and Thursday's were off days, and the weekends were usually filled with either drawing requests, fanart pieces or more fully finished works and even more scribs. On occasion, They'd take a full week or two off if they were busy with school since they were still just 17 (which baffled Paul, wondering how someone so young and close in age to him can have so much talent while he could barely hold a paintbrush properly) or if Winnie was going through a tough episode. 

Paul hoped one day that he could muster up the courage to DM Winnie and actually befriend them, as weird as it sounds. They just seemed so fun and interesting to Paul, and he'd bet that if they were to meet face-to-face, they would immediately click. They'd become an inseparable duo. Best friends for life. They could then be roommates. And they could adopt a plant or cat together. But Paul was too nervous, though, of seeming annoying and like a crazed fan, and besides- he'd never even seen Winnie's face before. 

"I bet they'd be drop-dead gorgeous, though..." Paul whispered to himself, before standing back up and checking the time, "9:13, right."  
He stood up and began to pick up each of his moving boxes, one by one, and taking them downstairs, trying to avoid his fathers 'moving is a hard part of growing up but it molds you into a better person and gives you a chance for a brand new start'-talk. That month alone, Paul's heard it 65 times (trust me, he counted), and he was not ready for April, when he would be bound to get the 'It takes some getting used to'-talk. After the last of his boxes have been bought down, he went into the small kitchen/dinning room, where his father had been sat, reading a newspaper and sipping his tea. As Paul joined him on the opposite side of the table, Jim didn't miss his exhausted expression that he mistook for sadness.

"You know, James... Moving is just a part of growing up—" 66 now.  
"-Dad!" Paul got annoyed by being called by his first name but soon calmed down, pouring the cereal and milk into his bowl, "... I know dad, I know, you told me... I'm just tired, tha's all." He saw mike coming down the stairs and sit beside him, and thus they bickered about nonsense for the better half of the morning, spilling juice, coffee, tea and milk all over the table, leaving it for poor Jim to clean at the end. 

Despite his refusal to listen to his fathers many words of encouragement over the month, Paul was very much aware of the situation at hand and what an emotional toll it was going to take on him. The feeling finally really hit him when he carried over the last of his boxes to the moving van and took a moment to look at the house. The hedges were no longer endearingly wild and bushy but trimmed down to attract people looking at the house, and even all of the flower pots were gone and the pretty pink tinge disappeared that made it so... home, to Paul. A sigh escaped his lips as he watched the house, almost waiting for it to change back. He was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder from Jim, who looked at the building with an old recognition.

"Y'know..." Jim said, "...This reminds me of when me and your mother first bought this house- all squeaky clean and neat, just like this. It's hard to believe that was 20 years ago!" He opened up his beige leather wallet and pulled out a fading, tattered photograph, of him and Mary standing proudly in-front of the metal gate. Carefully, Jim handed the photo over to Paul and pointed out all of the barely-visible differences in scenery in the picture, recalling every little incident that happened in certain spots the week they Ha moved in. Eventually, Jim gave his son one final grin and took back the photo, and then nodded his head towards their car, telling him to get in there. As they drove away, Paul could feel himself starting a new chapter in his life, as the window view of the house washed away. He slumped in his seat opposite Mike, and pulled out his phone again, opening Instagram back up to look at more of Winnie's art to cheer him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Chapter, eh? Enjoyed the story thus far? Please leave any feedback or Constructive criticism you may have.


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